


Coping Methods

by PepperPrints



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 10:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7680184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Leonard Snart, Central City's most renowed florist, is growing more agitated than satisfied by his blooming success. Meanwhile, Mick Rory, on his court-appointed therapy, has been given a very specific task -- which he's none too pleased about either.</p><p>Coincidentally, these matters coincide. As they tend to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Methods

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://koscheiis.tumblr.com/post/145738369188/flower-shop-au). Hopefully no one has done this yet! Haha.
> 
> Also, with love, for Erika.

“How’s business, Lenny?”

 

_ Shitty, sis _ , is the brutally honest response, but Len doesn’t say so. He rarely has reason to be dishonest with Lisa, but under certain circumstances, he finds himself compelled. Len only hums under his breath, not looking up from the arrangement, and is as vague as he can get away with.

 

“The usual,” he replies, which says more than he actually intends.

 

“That bad, huh,” Lisa observes, tapping her nails on the counter, and she’s actually trying not to smile.

 

Sometimes he isn’t sure why he bothers trying to be evasive with her. “Yeah, that bad,” Len affirms in an undertone.

 

Lisa sighs, hopping up onto the counter to sit beside him as he works. There’s a magazine clipping neatly placed by the register: the lastest column of gushing praise posted for all to view. “Oh, what have we here,” she declares eagerly, grinning far too wide. She adopts a voice when she starts to read, a dramatic and obnoxiously pompous demeanor. “Let’s see.  _ Central City Florist Amazes Again: Leo Snart proves again that he’s as much an architect as he is an artist. _ ” Lisa pauses, blinks, and scoffs. “Firstly, that doesn’t even make sense. Secondly, you haven’t gone by Leo since you were ten.”

 

“I know,” Len affirms sourly, and he’s a bit more aggressive with his shears than the current arrangement likely deserves.

 

“Len, you hate these snobs,” she says disbelievingly, gesturing with the clipping. “Why do you keep working for them? I know that drives you up the wall.” She turns her voice nasally again. “Leo, you are simply decadent. How avant-garde.”

 

Even the mockery of it makes Len cringe and Lisa can tell. “I keep telling you, you should drive freight with me,” she advises, leaning to nudge him with her elbow. “You’d make good money.”

 

“This is good money,” Len counters, though the argument lacks bite when his tone is so dull.

 

“Right,” Lisa drawls flatly. “Listen. I know you’re holding on to this place because--”

 

Len really doesn’t want this conversation to go down that path, and luckily for him, Lisa doesn’t get a chance to finish. By now, the front doors should be locked, and Len must have neglected that after he let Lisa inside when she came knocking after hours. There’s something about the man who enters. His stature isn’t exactly towering, but there’s something in the air around him: something that makes him look ready to burst at any second, like he could barely fit through the doorway.

 

There isn’t even any time for Len to inform him that they’re closed. He’s already storming across the floor, reaching the counter and slamming down the crumpled bills from his pants pocket.

 

“How do I say  _ fuck you _ in flower?”

 

Len stares. Very rarely is he ever considered at a loss for words -- it was a trait that got him into trouble more than once growing up -- but here he finds himself briefly tongue tied. Unsure of what else to say, Len has to confirm:

 

“Fuck you?” Len slowly repeats, one brow raising. 

 

“Fuck you,” the man affirms seriously, “in flower.”

 

Lisa seems as stunned as Len does. Though he does catch how her eyes move up and down, and how very white teeth briefly catch onto her brightly painted lower lip. She proceeds to very slowly, deliberately, cross one leg over the other where she sits, and casually brush her hair back over her shoulder. 

 

So, she clearly shares that sentiment as well. Len can hope he’s a little more subtle himself.

 

“Can I ask the occasion?” Len continues, the picture of professionalism.

 

“The occasion is my shrink being an asshole with shitty methods,” the man growls, and he pushes the crinkly pile of money further on the counter. “Will you do it or not?”

 

Setting the shears down onto the counter, Len takes a moment. He starts the careful process of sorting out the clump of cash, smoothing out the bills and placing them into a neater pile. “Yeah,” Len decides casually, once he’s through counting. “I can do that.”

 

“Good,” is the gruff mutter of a reply, and he’s already going before Len can say anything else. “Keep the change.”

 

For all the anger in his stride, he doesn’t actually slam the door on his way out. He’s actually deliberately gentle about it. Which is some surprise. Len is left staring, and Lisa actually hops off the counter, watching him leave from the window.

 

“Well,” she says happily, striding back to him smugly. “That was something. Shame he wanted  _ fuck you _ , wouldn’t it have been nicer if it was  _ fuck m _ \--?”

 

“Shouldn’t you be going?” Len cuts in curtly, and Lisa’s smile spreads.

 

“Guess so.” Lisa leans across the counter, leaving a deliberate peck against his cheek. “Get some sleep, okay?”

 

Len makes an affirmative sound, but he’s distracted, his thumb sliding over a crumpled stack of twenties.

 

\--

 

Of all the things Mick could be arrested for, it ends up being arson.

 

It’s stupid, really, considering the long laundry list of things he’s done -- but in reality it’s the better thing. That way, the lawyers have a way to swing it: Mick is no crook, just a man with an issue who needs help. They played it all really well, and Mick managed to get off with therapy and probation. 

 

Sometimes, Mick wonders if prison would have been better.

 

“I have your best interests at heart, Mick,” the doctor assures him.

 

It grates worse than nails on a chalkboard and Mick forces himself to exhale.  _ That’s stupid _ , is his kneejerk reaction now -- and it’s his reaction to a lot of the things she says. However, he’s trained himself out of saying it, since he’s noticed that every time he does, she makes a little hum and writes a little note.

 

He’s not as dumb as people think. He knows when to play nice.

 

“This is my suggestion,” the doctor says sweetly, taking her glasses off as if to emphasize her sincerity. “At the core of it, this is a compulsion issue. It is my belief, that if you have something else to focus on, to keep yourself busy, you’ll feel less compelled towards your… more destructive urges.”

 

“I keep busy,” Mick points out bluntly, and she purses her lips a little.

 

“Yes, the uh…” She flips back on her notepad. “Welding. Mechanical work. That’s all very well. But it’s also a bit… closely linked to setting sparks, don’t you think?”

 

Not really, Mick wants to argue, but so far he’s learned that defiance gets him nowhere, so instead he forces a smile. “Oh, I never thought of it that way,” he says with forcefully feigned excitement “Tell me doc, what’s the miracle cure? What do I gotta do?”

 

Maybe it’s because he’s mocking that she does this. Maybe it’s because he’s a pain in the ass that she smiles, and tells him so seriously to devote himself to botany.

 

“It’s a coping method,” she insists firmly.

 

It’s the stupidest thing Mick’s ever heard. He can’t say that, though, because then he’s being hostile and someone’s going to send him back to court.

 

Mick is only human, and he has a temper. He has to get it out somehow. She wants him to stop and smell the roses? Like that will change everything, turn him zen and peaceful? Gee, doc, you’re a genius! I never thought of that before! Then she’d write a bunch of articles, get published, and make her fortune.

 

Stupid.

 

Of all the acts of defiance he could muster, this is the simplest. The more he thinks about it, the more flimsy it gets, and he’s already put the money into it, and he isn’t sure he can sheepishly step back into the shop and ask for a refund.

 

That’s one of the things she talked about: getting ahead of himself, not thinking things through, making dumb choices on impulse.

 

He hates when she’s right.

 

The bell on the door chimes when Mick comes in, and the place is empty except for the man at the counter -- the same clerk who he shoved his money at last night. Suddenly, Mick realizes: that’s all he did. He gave him money, and he stormed off: no receipt, no name, no nothing. Not even a date of when his order was supposed to be done. He just sort of… assumed it would be ready by now. He didn’t really know how flowers worked.

 

Mick is faced with the dawning realization that he has no idea what he’s doing, and he might entirely embarrass himself in front of this guy.

 

This guy who… well. Mick didn’t really get a chance to look at him before: he’s a well put together sort of person, slim and steady with his hands as he ties off a ribbon at the base of the vase he’s hovering over. He’s neatly dressed: all slim clothes and sparse black. By comparison, Mick must seem bulky and overburdened in his layers. There’s a tilt of his head as he looks Mick over, and it seems more curious than judgmental.

 

“...hey,” Mick greets a bit awkwardly.

 

“Hey,” is the reply, casually enough.

 

He’s got sharp eyes. Mick didn’t notice that before; he isn’t sure how he could have missed it.

 

“Uh,” Mick starts, hands tucked into his pockets. “I was here last night…”

 

“I remember,” the man says coolly, picking up a pair of scissors. “ _ Fuck you _ , right?”

 

He’s got a smile in the corner of his mouth, and Mick wonders if he’s making fun of him. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s right.”

 

The man bows his head somewhat, but his smile seems a little wider, as if he’s trying to keep it hidden. “This is for you,” he tells him, gesturing with the scissors before opening them up. “You’ll need to give me a minute.”

 

He swiftly drags the sharp edge of the scissors down the edge of the ribbon, causing it to curl. It’s all one quick, sharp motion, and seems oddly easy, but Mick gets the impression that if he tried to replicate it, it wouldn’t exactly work.

 

“Really, ‘cause…” Mick shrugs. “I dunno much about flowers, boss, but this looks pretty… fancy.”

 

“What did you expect it to look like?” he asks, and Mick feels oddly put on the spot. What did he expect it to look like? Something hideous and thorny and pungent, honestly. 

 

For lack of anything better, Mick shrugs in response. It earns him a grin, and the man gestures with the scissors to the bouquet before him. “Geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness,” he lists off, indicating each one as he speaks. “And a touch of yellow carnations for disappointment and orange lilies for hatred.” There’s a smug smile then. “I know what I’m doing.” 

 

“Huh,” Mick says, actually impressed, and he can’t help a sheepish sort of grin. “Sorry I doubted you, boss.” 

 

“No offense taken,” he assures, causing Mick to chuckle. “But I have to ask,” the man continues, putting away the scissors and wiping his hands. “Flowers are an odd choice for the statement you’re trying to make.”

 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Mick finds himself oddly defensive. “It’s ironic,” Mick tells him bluntly, though he honestly can’t tell if he’s using the definition of irony correctly. “It’s for the shrink. She thinks flowers are gonna fix me. It’s a… ‘coping method’ or whatever. Apparently.” Mick makes the quotations in the air with a wave of his hand. “It’s stupid, is what it is. So: fuck you.”

 

There’s that tilt of his head again. Slight but certain, like the gesture is almost practiced. “That’s an odd thing to think,” he replies, then clarifies: “Her. Not you.”

 

“Yeah, well.” Mick shifts his weight, taking the vase for an excuse to do something with his hands. “It’s about -- compulsions.” Mick isn’t sure why he’s saying this, why he’s telling so much to this stranger with his sharp eyes and thin smiles. He feels the need to explain himself, and is utterly unwilling to make an idiot of himself in front of this man. “She thinks it’ll do me good to… look after something. Be accountable for something that’s actually living. So: plants.” Mick shrugs, tries to joke: “Less dangerous than risking the life of a cat, I guess.”

 

After he says it, he wonders if that’s a bit too grim, but the man doesn’t react. Maybe he shouldn’t spill all his dirty laundry out to a pretty store clerk, but he looks oddly undisturbed. 

 

“Hm.”

 

The man steps away again, and Mick almost inquires about it, but he’s back before he can. “Try this,” he advises, passing him a pot. Mick isn’t any expert on this stuff, but it’s at least something he recognizes: he knows what a cactus looks like. That’s about the extent of his knowledge. “They don’t need a lot of water. They’re sturdy. Hard to beat down. Prickly.” He smiles again. “Might be relatable for you.”

 

Mick’s brows raise, and he lifts the plant in his hand to squint at it. “Callin’ me a prick, boss?” he asks lowly, and that crooked smile in the corner of the man’s mouth spreads.

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies coolly.

 

Mick scoffs, and he doesn’t know what to do about that. On impulse, he tries to set something down so he can reach into his pocket, but he’s waved away. “No charge,” he insists. “Just take it.”

 

“Huh,” Mick says slowly, vase in one hand and the pot in the other. He hovers a bit awkwardly, as this guy with his thin smile and his sharp eyes stands beside him. “...thanks.”

 

Working his jaw, Mick has a moment of debate. With both his hands full, he has to open the door with a nudge of his elbow -- and he pauses halfway through the motion to speak again. “It’s Mick,” he says suddenly, without preamble, so he adds. “I’m Mick.”

 

This usually would be the moment where he offers his hand forward, but his arms are full so he’s left awkwardly standing. He could put everything down to try to engage him again, but that seems far too fumbling. The man seems to just consider him for a moment, making a thoughtful hum. “Mick; not a prick,” he says coyly. “Easy to remember.”

 

Mick, lacking anything smart to say, makes a grumble of a noise and leaves before he can make more of a scene.

 

\--

 

“You’re in a good mood,” Lisa observes slyly, resting her elbow on the counter and cupping her chin in her palm. “A suspiciously good mood.” Her eyes narrow, and she peers at him as if she’s trying to puzzle something out. “What happened?”

 

Pausing in his evening paperwork, Len gives her a look. “I’m touched you’re so invested in my wellbeing,” Len drawls flatly. “You have to be suspicious of me, instead of happy for me?”

 

“I know you,” she insists, tilting her head as if looking at him from a new angle will give her a better insight. “What did you do?”

 

“I…” Len pauses in his smart reply, finishing his statement as a realization dawns, “...messed up my numbers.”

 

Lisa looks shocked. “You?” she says, stunned. “No offense but I don’t think a single petal leaves this shop without you adjusting inventory.”

 

“None taken,” Len replies, dryly but sincerely. He’s very efficient at what he does; he makes a point of it. So why, suddenly, are things not adding up? He hovers his pen over his notes as he scans down them, looking for anything out of place. “I’m missing…”

 

Oh. That’s it.

 

“Never mind,” Len mutters, scratching away with his pen. “My own fault.”

 

Hiding anything from Lisa is pointless. He isn’t sure why he bothers. “Oh,” she says smugly. “Is this about tall, broad and  _ fuck you _ ?”

 

“...potentially,” Len admits.

 

Mick did leave a fair amount of crumpled up bills, more than enough to make a suitable arrangement. However, once Len started working on it, the notion got away from him. How often was he going to be asked to make something like that? Instead of the same ordinary symbolism, he was asked to make the exact opposite. It gave him such a unique opportunity, and he couldn’t pass it up. So, he might have, just slightly, given him way more than he actually paid for.

 

And a cactus too.

 

Len taps his pen against the counter, and Lisa beams. “Tell me everything,” she insists.

 

“There isn’t much to say,” Len honestly replies, flipping over to a new sheet of paper. “His name is Mick and he thought I called him a prick.”

 

“That’s the start of an adult nursery rhyme,” Lisa teases, nudging her weight against him. Smiling, she begins to count off on her fingers. “Mick, prick, thick, d--”

 

“He’s a therapy patient with compulsion issues,” Len cuts in, signing off at the bottom of the sheet then snapping the folder shut. “He bought an arrangement to piss off his doctor. That’s all.”

 

Lisa raises a single brow, tilting her head to the side inquisitively, and Len relents with a sigh. “I also gave him a succulent for his therapy,” he admits reluctantly. “On the house.”

 

“Lenny,” Lisa taunts as if scandalized. She touches her hand to her chest, falsely dramatic. “One pair of broad shoulders walks through the door and you start giving away the whole place for free?”

 

“One plant was free,” Len corrects, before belatedly remembering. “...and over half of the flower arrangement.”

 

“Oh Lenny,” Lisa sighs dramatically. “You’ve got a problem.”

 

She laughs it off, nudging him to show she’s clearly teasing, and Len grins too -- but maybe she’s not too far off.

 

Making that bouquet has been the most satisfying job Len’s been given for… weeks? Maybe months? Coping methods… Len frowns and he wonders.

 

Maybe Mick had been onto something.

 

\--

 

Mick’s grand scheme doesn’t really go according to plan.

 

Unfortunately, that’s true of a lot of his endeavors. Mick knows he’s hotheaded, he knows he gets in too deep before he stops to think, and every now and then he has to suffer for it.

 

Like his shrink thinking the bouquet is the most touching thing in the world.

 

The worst is how Mick can’t even remember which flowers mean what, so he can’t even go around correcting her. Something was hatred, right? Or was it disappointment -- or were both in there? It got pretty broad. He should have gotten the guy to write it down… the guy who, apparently, is a much bigger deal than Mick thought.

 

After shoving her nose into it, his doctor peers at the card and her eyes widen. “Mick, this from Leonard Snart!”

 

“Yeah? That’s his name?” Mick observes vaguely, which is good to know -- but he’s clearly missing something by the way she’s giving him huge goo-goo eyes. 

 

“This was made by  _ Leonard Snart _ !” she chokes disbelievingly. “This is by the best florist in Central City! He decorates the mayor’s office and now he’s decorating mine, I’m…!  _ Mick _ ! I’m speechless!”

 

Uh. 

 

“Me too,” says Mick honestly, and he accepts the most awkward hug of his life.

 

So, apparently, he threw some pocket change at the most high and mighty flower place in the whole damn city, asked the owner himself to make a ‘piss off’ bouquet, and probably got a cactus for free because he looked like such a goddamn beggar that pretty eyes took pity on him.

 

And on top of it all, he’s pretty sure that the cactus is dying -- so Mick is officially less nourishing than a desert.

 

Mick feels like his blood is boiling under his skin. He drags his hand back over his scalp, feeling the prickle of his hair under his palm, and if he stopped to wonder, he’d probably realize that this is a rash and stupid decision… but he doesn’t, and his stomping feet carry him back into the shop with his outrage bubbling in his throat.

 

He’s not a charity case; he’s not a joke either. He isn’t going to stand by and let someone whose life revolves around pruning daisies get up in his face about it.

 

The door opens with a cheery little bell ringing, and when he sees Snart, he feels his anger suddenly die on his tongue.

 

Because when Snart looks at him, he smiles as if pleasantly surprised -- and it has more of an impact than Mick is ready for.

 

“Mick,” Snart greets, pausing in the middle of moving a fern from one pot to the next, “didn’t expect to see you back.”

 

Mick feels ruffled. He tries to recover himself, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. There’s something odd in seeing Snart with his hands covered in dirt, and the careless way he does it. It doesn’t really line up with the posh, superior image he had so angrily fixed in his brain. It diffuses the sense of threat, and makes him seem oddly humble instead.

 

“What, it’s not like buying from you made me bankrupt,” he says defensively, and Snart’s smirk spreads. He clearly takes it as a joke, rather than a jab. Mick isn’t sure what he actually wanted it to be, and he doesn’t get time to think on it, because Len is already speaking.

 

“How’s the plant?” he asks, and Mick feels a sudden, creeping guilt edge in.

 

“Good,” Mick lies through his teeth. It’s inexplicable, how suddenly the moment has turned on him, how the idea of letting Snart know that one of his plants is dying in Mick’s care feels utterly damning. “S’why I’m here.”

 

Thinking fast on his feet isn’t usually one of Mick’s strong suits, but he recovers surprisingly quickly here. “I’m here for another one,” he continues quickly. “Expanding the collection. Doctor’s orders.”

 

Arching a brow, Len gives him an up and down. “Thought you weren’t too fond of your shrink,” Len says, wiping his hands off on his apron, and Mick wonders how quickly his game might be up.

 

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck with his hand. “Yeah, but,” he replies vaguely. “They think I’m on to something, so…”

 

“Mh,” intones Snart vaguely. “Well I’m happy to help.”

 

It sounds oddly not like salesmanship, and more sincere instead. Mick wonders how much he’s swayed by a sharp smile and clear eyes, but while his wit isn’t too keen, he’s always been a fair judge of character. Mick knows when he likes someone, and he knows when someone will be more trouble than they’re worth. 

 

Len feels like trouble, but for an entirely different reason.

 

Like how Mick is now leaving with two extra cacti that he has no idea how to take care of.

 

Snart actually rings him through properly this time, and Mick hands him the appropriate bills. “Well. Thanks,” he mutters in an undertone.

 

“Mh,” Snart hums again, handing him his change, then he continues: “How were the flowers, by the way?”

 

Oh. Mick scowls and snorts. “Big hit,” Mick says dryly.

 

“That’s a shame.” Len chuckles a bit. “I worked really hard to put extra loathing into it. Maybe more carnations next time.”

 

Mick pauses. Len’s hand, still dusted by soil, skims his as he drops coins into his palm. There’s dirt under his nails and stuck in the crooks of his joints. When Mick lifts his gaze, he notices something else: a dark smear on his forehead, where he must have wiped his brow from exertion while he worked. 

 

Mick isn’t sure why that suddenly seems so compromising. 

 

“You work really hard at this stuff,” Mick observes cautiously. “Huh?”

 

Len shrugs, and his thumb idly brushes the edge of his jaw, leaving behind another faint trail of soil. “It pays bills,” he says easily, though it doesn’t necessarily sound ingenuine, there’s something deliberately omitted there.

 

“That why you do it?” Mick asks skeptically. “To pay bills? Must be easy when you got Central City’s finest lining up for you, Snart.”

 

Len gives a small laugh: just one amused exhale. He pauses for a moment, his jaw working as if considering, then he speaks: “My mother,” he admits, focusing on wiping his hands on the apron, rather than looking at Mick now. “This was her life’s work -- and she had sold it a long time ago, trying to climb out of the hole my father’s debts put her in. It took a lot of fighting, tooth and nail, but I got it back for her.” Len glances up again. “She was only able to enjoy the gesture for a few years, and what the… clientele has become, isn’t what she would have wanted, or cared about in the first place. Still. I’m reluctant to give it up again.”

 

Oh.

 

Len smiles, in one corner of his mouth, and Mick can’t help himself.

 

“I’m killing your plants.”

 

Along with killing whatever touching moment Len is trying to share with him.

 

It comes out unplanned, and Mick could punch himself in the jaw. Those clear eyes of his go wide as Len stares at him. “I’m sorry?” Len asks hesitantly.

 

“The… cactus you gave me,” Mick continues lamely. “I’m pretty sure it’s dying.”

 

Len just looks at him for a moment. He gives Mick that up and down again, as if he’s sizing him up, and then he nods his head. He’s suddenly crouching behind the counter, rummaging for something and when he straightens up again, he’s wiping his hands with a wet cloth and reaching for his coat.

 

“We’ll take a look at that, then,” Len reasons simply, as if that’s the easiest thing in the world, and it’s Mick’s turn to stare.

 

“You, uh, sure about that, boss?” Mick says skeptically, and Len is already walking past him. 

 

“Mmhm,” Len intones affirmatively, flipping the ‘open’ sign around to show ‘closed’ instead. “Positive.” 

 

Mick’s throat feels dry, and he hurries to try to recall exactly what state he left his apartment in.

 

\--

 

Len isn’t usually considered spontaneous. He’s gotten grief for being the exact opposite: for planning too thoroughly, for trying to compensate for any and all circumstances. Someone like Mick showing up at his door is one of those things he simply couldn’t prepare for, and he’s making matters worse by wandering off with him now. However, it’s a welcome sort of feeling, rather than disorienting.

 

Mick, however, seems edgy about it. He doesn’t seem the type to be called shy, but once he’s opened the door to his apartment, he’s buzzing around trying to pick up after himself. The task seems about as plausible as skiing uphill in an avalanche, considering the mess surrounding the entire place. Len doesn’t mind it. He may have a reputation -- much to his chagrin -- among the posh society in Central City, but this is the sort of environment he grew up in: casual, carefree chaos.

 

“Mick,” Len says once, and when he’s ignored -- either purposefully or not -- he raises his voice a little. “ _ Mick _ .”

 

That gets his attention. Mick whips back towards him, and Len gives a lopsided smile. “Plants?” he prompts, holding the two fresh ones up in demonstration.

 

“Oh. Yeah. It’s, uh, over here.” Mick has trouble gesturing properly, given how his hands are full of various items of clutter that he’s trying to clear out of the way. “If you wanna look.”

 

Mick’s vague nod points him towards the window, and Len obliges without commenting. Sure enough, the cactus is there, happily taking in sunlight, but its colour is off and the needles are falling. Setting the new pots down, he decides to see what he can do.  Len tips his head to the side, and as he presses his fingers to the soil, he finds his answer.

 

“You’re drowning it,” Len announces bluntly.

 

All of Mick’s busy rustling stops at once. “I’m what?”

 

Len smiles at him; he can’t help an oddly uncharacteristic burst of endearment. “You’re giving it too much water,” Len tells him simply. “You’re not neglecting it -- you’re smothering it.”

 

Mick just stares at him for a moment. He takes a second, nods his head, then unceremoniously drops all of the clutter in his arms into one big heaping pile on the couch. Mick follows suit, sinking heavily onto the cushions, slumped in defeat.

 

“Smothering. That’s just swell,” drawls Mick bitterly, and Len tries to press his lips together, but his smirk shows through.

 

“Killing it with kindness, really,” he surmises, approaching Mick with steady strides. “I think it’s still progress; your doctor might be proud.”

 

“Fuck the doctor,” Mick says sourly, and he’s rummaging on the coffee table now, checking for which bottles of booze might still have something left in them. “Waste of my damn time…”

 

“Mh,” hums Len thoughtfully, reaching out his hand to touch Mick’s wrist, stalling his restless searching among the bottles. “I wouldn’t say so.”

 

Len lingers there, his fingertips finding the gap between Mick’s gloves and the end of his sleeve. The underside of his wrist is all smooth, soft skin, but as he slides around, the opposite side feels strangely rough -- burns? It’s hard for Len to tell, but Mick doesn’t shy from it.

 

Curiously, watching Mick’s face for any sign of protest, Len rolls Mick’s sleeve up. The skin he exposes is all one, extended series of scars: a jagged roadmap of fire on Mick’s flesh. He’s only bared him up to his elbow, and it shows no sign of stopping. How far does it go? All the way up his arm, to his chest, or even further? Does it cover his heart?

 

The notion lingers on Len heavily, and his thoughts are cut by the sound of Mick’s voice. “Told ya, boss,” he says with a grin, though his voice is too soft to seem jokingly dismissive. “Compulsions.” 

 

_ Don’t say I didn’t warn you _ , is the unspoken sort of sentiment. Len holds Mick’s wrist in one hand, and the other trails his fingertips in a slow path down the length of his forearm. The skin is bubbled, sickly smooth in certain places and raw in others. Len moves slowly, and Mick is very still.

 

“Do they hurt?” Len asks cautiously, keeping his touch deliberately light.

 

“Sometimes,” Mick admits with a shrug, his voice low, and he adds, “not right now.”

 

“Good to know.”

 

Giving Mick’s shoulder a little push, Len urges him to lean back on the couch. Mick obliges easily enough, though his posture noticeably stiffens when Len settles himself onto the couch with him, straddling his thighs and wrapping his arms around broad shoulders.

 

“Oh,” Mick says thickly, just staring up at him, hands hovering as if he’s afraid to actually touch him. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Len parrots coyly, then he decides he ought to check. “Smothering?”

 

“No,” Mick says immediately, causing Len to grin. Len places one hand on the back of Mick’s neck, his thumb rubbing behind his ear, and he’s rewarded by Mick leaning eagerly towards him. 

 

It’s enough of an invitation for Len to take. He hides his smirk by pressing his mouth to Mick’s -- and he’s almost immediately devoured. Mick grabs his hips, drags Len in close with a sudden, rough insistence, and it startles a muffled gasp out of Len’s mouth. Mick swallows the sound up, rumbling contently in his throat. He’s warm, his tongue pressing deep past Len’s lips and tracing his teeth. Sighing, Len lets it come, lets himself be pushed -- lets himself be wanted so suddenly, so aggressively, that it overrides his own stubborn lock of carefully composed control. 

 

It’s more satisfying than he anticipates.

 

The kiss breaks with a soft hum from Len’s lips, and Mick lets out a ragged exhale, bumping their foreheads together.

 

“Your shrink was onto something after all?” Len asks teasingly, and Mick scoffs disbelievingly.

 

“Fuck you,” he growls against Len’s mouth. Chuckling, Len catches his lower lip beneath his teeth.

 

“Yeah,” he counters lowly, hands cupping the back of Mick’s head. “I like the sound of that.”


End file.
